


Le Bien Qui Fait Mal (The Good Thing That Hurts)

by PrincexRaven



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Bottom Sebastian, But only a bit, Dancer AU, Dom/sub Undertones, Domme Grell, F/M, Female Pronouns for Grell Sutcliff, Fetish Clothing, Frottage, Grell is on HRT, HRT, High Heels, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mozart L'Opera Rock - Freeform, Musical References, Musicals, Other, PWP, Top Grell, Trans Female Character, Trans Female Grell Sutcliff, Whipping, but only because they don't speak much, you need to understand the lyrics for it to make sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 01:23:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19096882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincexRaven/pseuds/PrincexRaven
Summary: Sebastian Michaelis is a dancer and performer; a professional who's never had the kind of trouble with this particular number all his female partners seem to have. That is, until the one and only Grelle Sutcliff is introduced as his new partner...





	Le Bien Qui Fait Mal (The Good Thing That Hurts)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grelleswife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grelleswife/gifts), [The_Littlest_Raindrop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Littlest_Raindrop/gifts).



> I highly recommend you search for the meaning of the lyrics and watch the choreography (not the videoclip) of Le Bien Qui Fait Mal from Mozart L'Ópera Rock or half of the meaning of this will be lost on you. The lyrics are in both in Italics and brackets () and in French. Lovingly dedicated to Jaz, my partner in crime, and grelleswife, whose extraordinary writing of the SebaGrelle dynamic inspired me to write my own.
> 
> As always, this is not the place to critique me on how I choose to see Grelle's gender or the pronouns I use for her. Feel free to use whichever you want but please be respectful.
> 
> On with the show!

Sebastian leaned against the wall, utterly disinterested, examining his perfectly polished onyx-black nails. A change of partner had been expected –not many of the female dancers could or would deal with this particular number for very long, and he’d lost count of how many of them had come and gone, boring and mundane and trite.

It was thus that his new partner’s feet were the first thing to enter his field of vision, and his eyes widened considerably at the height of the polished black shoes and their red heels, the arch they forced the foot into, and let his eyes roam up some gracefully shaped calves, leather straps winding about them and cutting almost cruelly into the marble-like, sculpted, snowy pale legs. Her thighs were strong but slender, her hips slim but curved, her waist diminutive under the burgundy corset belt that cinched it; aside from that, she only wore a low-cut black maillot under which he could divine the shape of her protruding hipbones, and a dark red leather harness belted right under her petite, perky breasts, lace wings fanning out at the shoulders. Her lithe arms were sheathed in black leather gloves that missed said shoulders by barely two inches, a glimpse of tantalizing velvety whiteness between them and the ends of the maillot. Her swanlike neck sported a red choker with a black padlock in the shape of a heart, but her prominent clavicle was fully visible, as was the treasure of royal blue veins under alabaster-like, translucent skin in her cleavage that made Sebastian want to sink his teeth into the yielding flesh and draw blood as scarlet as the woman’s waterfall of a ponytail, the ends of the saffron-colored strands of silk brushing past her tailbone. The face that accompanied did not disappoint; razor-sharp high cheekbones, a slightly upturned and well defined nose; under perfectly arched brows, her almond eyes, heavy lids burdened by jet-black, sparkly eyeshadow, incongruously black and amazingly long eyelashes, fluttering like velvet butterflies, enticing, hypnotic chartreuse-colored irises; and her mouth, and her mouth, lips as plump and ripe and red and maddening as the fruit of Eden, abnormally sharp teeth with the dizzying thrill of danger. 

She was definitely nothing like the rest of them –there was nothing ordinary or mundane about this woman, he thought, as she offhandedly tossed him her name ( _Grelle Sutcliff_ , and he savored it, mouthing it silently, wondering what it would be like to scream it in agony or ecstasy or both) as she walked to the prop trunk, allowing him to see the fine curve of her bare back in that maillot that didn’t actually cover any of it until almost the end of her spine, the crimson of her hair resplendent against the glimmering silk of her skin, her pert and exquisitely shaped ass, the way she swayed as she moved. She turned on the stereo, a flame in those eyes that regarded him from under her thick lashes, and he started his part _(Mais d'où vient /L'émotion étrange /Qui me fascine /Autant qu'elle me derange?)_ and found himself asking the same questions the lyrics posed. 

She’d picked a long, braided whip from the trunk, and cracked it loudly once before determining she was satisfied and throwing it in front of her to loop around Sebastian’s neck and force him towards her lest he choked, sultrily singing along with him the song they were supposed to practice and was clear she already knew by heart. _(Je frissonne /Poignardé par le beau /C'est comme /Dans l'âme le couteau)_

He obliged her _(La blessure traverse mon cœur /Et j'ai /La joie dans la douleur /Je m'enivre de ce poison /A en perdre la raison)_ , following along as she twirled to stand behind him, whip around his waist and gloved hands around his neck, pressing on the sides and cutting off a bit of his blood flow, craning his face upwards as she whispered in his ear _(C'est le bien qui fait mal /Quand tu aimes /Tout à fait normal /Ta haine /Prends le plaisir /C'est si bon de souffrir)_ , kicked the back of his knees to make him fall on them; he raised one, foot flat on the floor, and she stepped on his thigh with her heel, leaned to whisper once again in his ear _(Succombe au charme /Donne tes larmes /C'est le bien qui fait mal /Quand tu aimes /Tout à fait banal /Ta peine /Les vrais délices /Passe par le supplices /Baisse les armes /Donne tes larmes)_ and he cried out the lyrics _(Je ressens /De violentes pulsions /J'ai l'impression /De glisser vers le fond)_ as she joined him in her smooth low voice _( Si j'ignore /D'où vient ce fléau /J'adore /L'avoir dans la peau /Envouté par des idées folles /Soudain /Mes envies s'envolent /Le désir devient ma prison /A en perdre la raison)_ as she pushed back and he landed back first on the parquet; the whip cracked across his torso and he could feel a few droplets of blood staining the black material of his t-shirt _(C'est le bien qui fait mal)_. She straddled him and threw her head back, the silver piece holding her ponytail together glinting in the studio lights, and he felt something incongruous with her form rub against his own straining erection, and not _once_ had he become aroused during a performance of this song, but she was different, she was insanity the colour of blood _(Succombe au charme)_ and she seemed to be in the same state as he was; and Sebastian threw all caution to the wind, surged forward, tangled his hand in the ruby locks that beckoned him so and kissed her dark painted lips, yanking black fabric down with his other hand so her breasts would pop over the stretched brim of her maillot, propped up by her harness. She moaned into his mouth, made no move to stop him, clawed away at his back even with gloved hands in an attempt to be even closer. He trailed his teeth down the column of her neck, bit at her clavicles, left vivid red marks wherever he could, sucked harshly on the dusky pink nipples until they were reddish and standing at attention, while she only goaded him on _(C'est si bon de souffrir)_ , shifting her hips so that their members would rub against each other. 

He could never stand playacting this sort of thing with those other tepid girls, but the raw desire this song epitomized had been real from the very first moment with Grelle, his Lilith, the crimson woman of his own private apocalypse –he shifted his hips so he could ease his leggings down, his leaking cock springing free, and she moved the groin of her maillot aside and undid whatever magic trick was keeping hers bound; flesh slapped against flesh, and he gripped her hips for dear life as all the blood in his body reached a boiling point in his veins when her slick, unbearably warm member pressed against his. He moaned loud enough for anyone in the adjacent studios to hear _(Succombe au charme)_ , and her pencil-thin heels scraped the floor as she struggled to put more pressure on the point where their bodies connected, the thighs he’d thought strong proving so as they trapped his own hips right where she wanted them, and he sat halfway up to bury his head in her chest and let out a half-choked sob when she finally encased both their members in the cool leather of her gloved hand _(Baisse les armes /Donne tes larmes)_. There had been no words, nor could he pinpoint the exact moment this had ceased to be an erotic rehearsal to turn into _this_ -all he knew is that he was consumed by her, her blazing eyes boring into his with their cold green fire, that he was utterly enraptured, that she turned this simple act into something that made a gasoline fire race down his spine, wild and out of control; she pumped hard enough to hurt, he held onto her like a lifeline, leaving blossoms of carmine with the shape of his hands on the white velvety skin that covered the powerful muscles in her hips and thighs; a lifeline, yes, but it was the same rope that killed him like a noose, and he was certain now that this was the death he’d choose if he could. She bit on his lips, on his earlobe, his neck, she was everywhere at once, encasing him in bright red heat, and then suddenly everything was a burst of white as he rolled his now blind eyes back, full-body shivers wracking him, spilling his seed onto her fist and his stomach. She _didn’t stop pumping_ , and the aftershocks soon turned into electric currents, making him jolt and twitch and sob, tears matting his eyelashes and staining his cheeks _(Donne tes larmes)_ as she continued her onslaught on him _(Les vrais délices /Passe par le supplices)_. He felt shattered, clinging to her body like she was the only one who could put him back together, like he’d disintegrate without her, wailing through bloodied lips until finally, finally, her molten hot spill joined his and she let go, ceasing the most exquisite torture he’d ever experienced, her red and purple and white chest heaving against his own. Sebastian looked into her eyes once more, the green gleam now calm and satisfied like a sated cat, her sensual lips curved into a wicked smile, and decided that no matter what, he was never changing partners for this number again.

And somewhere deep inside he knew –that every time they performed for an audience, when they had to restrain themselves, he would run backstage immediately after and mutely beg her to ravage him again. In this short span of time, she had become an addiction as true as heroin, seared his soul with her kiss, embedded herself into him permanently. He knew, somehow, that he’d never be able to live without her again.


End file.
